


The Dwellings Of Your Sorrow

by akanemi



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Gen, a sort of tribute to your art on headcanoning, this is mostly Jana's headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 18:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akanemi/pseuds/akanemi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days after the June uprising of 1823 have passed and the news of the fatality have been quickly spread among the people. Paris quietly mourns the anonymous studients who dared to dream. One of these people is Marguerite, who goes back to Bahorel's apartment to bid him farewell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dwellings Of Your Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



When they told her he had died, she couldn’t bring herself into believing it.

Then, slowly, the idea impregnated her soul, wrapped her heart and got into her skin. Deep, profound, subtly embracing all her senses.

_It was a massacre. They killed them all. All the students, none of them survived. They had no chance, no chance at all. They were just schoolboys. They had never held a gun before._

_Dreamers blindly following a Utopia._

Marguerite had left the shop, nobody had noticed. She walked quietly, absent-minded, and her steps bought her to his apartment.

She opened the door and closed her eyes. She could feel him in there. She caressed the wall, and the remembrance of his embrace hit her so suddenly it was almost violent. His hips, pressing with urgent gentleness against her; his lips on her neck, his rough hands on her waist, up and down, every caress in her skin, every kiss upon her forehead, her eyelids, her lips...

Her hands wandered the space, her fingertips feeling the wall, the furniture, the few books on the table, the withered daisies in the broken flower vase.

She sat down in the bed. It was unmade, the sheets were wrinkled and she could trace the silhouette of his body on the mattress. She pressed her hand against it and felt his absence clasping all her senses. She remembered his laughter, as rough as his hands, his childish smirk when she protested because he had left again his clothes all over her place. How he woke her up at three in the morning covered in blood and with wide smile and they sat in her floor, he with his legs crossed, she on his back, gently healing every bruise with alcohol and every cut with stitches. She kissed every swelling on his skin and smiled at him, calling him names, and he looked at her with his bright, deep eyes, and she had to swallow the impulsive expression that was brought up from her chest to her throat. They didn’t like words. Words were compelling, bounding. They needn’t them. Because they knew.

_They knew._

And it was enough.

She leant down, her head on the pillow, on his side. She used to wake up after he did, and he loved to look at her while the dim light of the morning played with the shadows around them. His fingers drew circles on her naked arms, and she trembled at the contact. By contrast, she was the last to fall asleep at night, and when his soft breathing acquired a regular pace, she liked to snuggle with her back against his chest, and he unconsciously wrapped her in his strong arms, sighing, placing his forehead against her nape. He played with her blonde ringlets and she loved to mess up his short hair, the colour of coffee beans. He hid her needles and she hid his shoes. He brought her daisies and she brought him apples. They always ended up sitting on the floor, wrapped in the same sheet, flowers on their hair, laughing together at life and sorrow, eating the fruit, playing with each other’s fingers, finding out where their skins were more sensitive, where they couldn’t stand the tickles or where they couldn’t suppress a moan.

Sometimes they were tired and they just sat down together on the rooftop looking at the stars. Sometimes they were sweet and spent entire mornings kissing every bit of their bodies. Sometimes they were stressed out and their caresses turned into nailing on their backs, bites on their necks, loud and furious love-making.

They lived apart; they wouldn’t have been capable to stand each other if they shared the same space for more than half a day. They wouldn’t have waited with such eagerness to see each other if they had taken it for granted. They lived fast; they loved fast, carelessly, almost unconsciously, without ever giving a second thought to anything.

And now he was gone.

She should have expected it. In fact, deep down, she did.

She smiled, a melancholic smile, clasping the pillow and hugging it tight against her chest. Classic Bahorel, letting himself die without even saying goodbye. 


End file.
